War Letter from a Long Summer

the hard heat

adds to the thrill

of being alive

stalking scorched streets

with cold-minded eyes

hardened

in the kiln

of too many voices

being that exception,

that warrior poet

standing alone,

is enough

to make us smile

in the blaze

of the hateful sun

Invisible Flame of Misfit Workers

sublime

if we can creep

past the wear-down

rage

past thoughts

too hateful

to darken a page

past misery heedless

near needless

for pay

past the clock-worn

routines

we repeat every day

somewhere

some spark

flints away

in the dark

with plans

nearly hatched

for some progress

to mark

this waking dream

of guiding flame

powers us through

a poisoned mind frame

it is our own darkness

ourselves

that we fight

in the hellfire struggle

to create

our own light

Drummer in Madison Square Park

tapping

to an endless dialogue

to no one at all

spattered

with brilliant rolls

percussion concussion

to make the doldrums die

walking the park to mark

the tail end of summer

joy in the sunshine

as the city

hustles

one stolen afternoon

at a time

Nightlight Over Long Beach Island

our devices

glow like fireflies

and the night sky

pays no mind

it steers the ocean

to pound these shores

not knowing we’re alive

there is no magic formula

waiting to be revealed

no untapped powers

to absorb

only beauty

to let all heal

the secret

is to enjoy this sight,

to let this glory

be your light

so stop searching

for your soul to feed

this truth through beauty

is all you need

Proud Prayer of the Infidels

faithful

in dismissing these myths

embracing the appeal

of the sting of rough earth,

the carnal, the real

proud to be

that blast of cold air

to bring chaos

to the god sellers

and give chase

with that cold mind,

the blue chill

of cold white reason

so feared

and so great

Subway Strangers

conversation snippets

patter like precipitation

this heat, that rain

what job, which station

desperate souls

and lonely trolls

railing needlessly

as we roll

castaways

among millions

clinging to the pole

all of us awkwardly

spying

for a friendly face

among these crowds

too sad, too lonely

but not too proud

By the Guiding Light of the Ozone Sky

on a city street

like a secret rendezvous

the velvet sky

calls to us,

its glow

as its calling card

and victory sign

for us alone

we will overcome

profane existence

and be that speed healer,

the secrecy dealer, soldier

and saver of savaged souls,

the harbinger of doom

for doubt,

assassin

of false virtue

and all else

that poisons dreams

we pledge

before this dawn sky

to be life’s avenger,

the reckoning to come,

to redeem the mad nomads

and beaten down dreamers

forever

Ode to the Time Stalkers

our secret way

to glimpse the world

cocooned in our own zone

fearless, anonymous, and alone

steal these precious minutes

from the workday masters

rambling soundless odes

to sooth frustrated souls

stalk this fleeting heaven

of a jazz-touched park

like a secret agent

at a drop

mind reeling

at the deft machinery

of life

its well-oiled gears

laid bare

just in time

to meet our retreat

on well-heeled feet

past the fumes and noise

with all manner

of proper corporate poise

we, sun-starved lunatics

of our own design

forever tethered

and counting time

Poetic Secret Soul Patrol

pastel skies preside

over the migration

through the dusty-dusk streets

a few spare souls

pace the same sidewalks

in a different zone,

seeing the life of everything

auto-gauging at every turn

they tap our hive-buzz

for answers and power

hear and see it all

in mad, bounteous cascade

the Corlear’s Hookers

plying their trade

the scattershot art

the homeless made

the ghostly cat calls

of time zones past

the sonic rat messages

telegraphed

at half mast

the daytime drinkers

in the hoppy-dark bars

and the yearning teenagers

squinting for stars

in the angelic language

of pigeon wings

under cross-examination

of the setting sun

we all tread home

to brighter dreams

and the day is won

Time-ripe Ninja Commuter Disguise

the time-ripe ninja

stealth assassin

sent to dispatch

legions of false faces

makes her way

through the metropolis

shrouded in the skin

of the slouched commuter

on the train

cold

to the homeless man

seeking alms in vain

all the while

in stolen moments

scribbling the puzzle pieces

to let loose

the hounds of greatness

they march triumphant

clenched jaws trailing blood

into immortality

Chicken Bucket Brigade

this rowdy assemblage

like bleacher creatures of old

serves to warm our hearts

out in the rain and cold

the chants, the jokes,

the joy of being here

our tribes trump cheap talk

fueled by beer

our colors are proud

and we know where we stand

singing our songs loud

across the fractured land

the chicken bucket

is a fairly good deal

amid this bogus playground

our spirits stay real

Madison & Vine

the literary life

is cast in bronze

on the sidewalks

of our great city

for the dead

the living sweat it out

feet to the pavement

scrapping day by day

with albatross dreams

and stolen lunches

then stumble

on the crutches

of park strolls

breathing in

life’s poetry

before spilling it

imperfectly (always)

back on the pilfered page

Night at the Carnival

shoveling fried food

into my mouth

while surveying

the passers by

 —a young parade

of summer delight

to test the men

of Friday night—

but such is this disguise,

ourselves unwell

but artfully wise

and somewhere

dark beneath

a silent warrior’s

sword unsheathed

showing no mercy

the verse unleashed 

For the Werewolves

I sweat each day

To earn my hide

To burn off this shell

And reveal the wolf inside

By work and desire

Embrace trial by fire

And make ourselves worthy

Of the life of blood and iron

Father’s Day at the Carnival

a tinkering sun glints sharply

from spinning rides,

small feet scamper

on dry grass

through laughter and chaos

to an unhinged carousel

with a wink

from the leathered carney

clasping sweaty little hands

to thunder past

the shady barkers,

hurtling headlong

into years

of everyday madness

and new adventure

of whatever comes next 

Grit City Sunset

still at heart

this is a gritty city

sweated out

on packed

train cars

where our petty travails

are mocked

by pastel majesty

of sunset

the red-pink

skyblood of pride

slashed across the westward sky,

a reward

for myriad dreamers

cobbling new lives

one hard day at a time,

ready to bare

their threadbare souls

to strangers

Mud Soup

churning churlish

under canopy of trees

at the quiet park

summer streets simmer

while temptint rain

the only Dad here

hiding under a sweaty hat

trying not to gawk

at the fit mom

breastfeeding

and the cool dirt

speaks to me

when the girls pile it

to build their castle

we endure all shapes

of absurdities

to give our blood kin

an edge,

grateful we no longer

have to kill for it

the girls

make their quiet father

mud soup

I pretend to sip it

—delicious—

as I wait

to unleash their ambition

upon the world

Righteous Fires in the American Mind

Our land,

born from multitudes

of blood,

cannot slip peacefully

into old age.

Like these fireworks,

we flare brilliantly,

a shining white hot light

for all to see,

violent,

ending in charred carnage.

History is our loving scold:

Independence is the love of danger

and the thrill of the hunt.

Let us make kindling of our fears.

Let us rattle the slumbering minds

with our fire at the ready

and our gunpowder dry.

If our end is in madness,

it will be righteous and strange.

Lone Wolf in Manhattan

stop to realize

I have become

a walking relic,

a tie-wearing man

in an open-collar world

where eunuchs grow beards

and women lean in

when they should stand

where savages

are taken for scholars

and beauty and art

is measured in dollars

but I smile widely

as I spot the sharp eyes

of my growing tribe

recused

and refuse

to live a lie

Simmering Summer Song

baked in a flush rage

the bright heat

pounding fists

from above and below

blast-furnace breeze

finds us

even among the trees

shroud-hiding

in plain sight

a sun-glass spy

avoiding the light

a self-styled wolf

stalking prey

that always gets away

we know our roles

as sun-touched souls

holding the line

until North winds

have their time

August Night

the music played

a sweaty, drunken romp;

a random gathering

on forgotten benches

as cabs careened

up 6^th Avenue

kissing to the white noise

that was Friday night’s anarchy,

the Village sang for us

and sent us on our way

Lunch Walk

Less time than a prison yard

but more

to put under gaze.

We seek to be invisible,

dissipate

into the summer haze.

Work piles up

while we breath fresh air

for our only fun.

Let the scene to be seen

turn and blister

in the sun.

Wear eight hats

and pulled

every which way.

We let work eat up

too much of our day.

Someday

we’ll go on our lunch walk

to stay.   

Song of the Hooves

Soundly uplifting

to be the workhorse,

to charge unbroken,

scarred by thorny brush.

Make earthly tremors

a calling card.

Let armchair emperors

taste blood and dust.

Let very course

be a thunderous plain,

let every harness

lay broken beneath. 

Bounce University

an upward swing

from every down-pressed time

every fracture of spirit

every dying sign

basic joy of motion

as we laugh among the screams

primal, carnal joy commotion

powers scattered tribal dreams

jumping high

and shoeless

as if making pagan prayer

smiling and remorseless

as we immolate with flair

Bleary Epiphany

spy the clock to find

the hours burned by fast

distraction waves

abound

like knowing knaves

bringing head-slump slumber

at the desk

the quiet dark

is false calm

a rude pause

to the world’s rage

churning somewhere

always

but the blue night

filled with child of dawn

sparks the need

to fly awake

and burn brighter than magnesium sun

while the rest of the world

slumbers

Lightning Bolt

a pulse of power

forged from sky,

a black flame candle,

a rallying cry

the might,

the knowledge

amidst the dark;

the light reveals

and burns its mark

Subway Ballet

choreographed

without words

by shifting eyes

in transit trance

no relief

compete for seats

while the stoic critic

prefers to stand

a musical chairs

of quiet despair

revolves all around

better

to treat the seats

like Caesar’s crown

and thrice refuse

to sit down

Playground Sneak

the stealth Dad,

trespassing

for children’s play

one eye over shoulder,

a gentle touch at the gate

dusk

cuts into afternoon

shepherd the young onward

through drizzle

and the quizzing eyes

of legitimate residents

outlaw father

stepping softly

across alien space,

a small price to pay

and will gladly pay again

Cloud Language

spy the sultry dusk

billows,

an intimate ceiling

burning paths

for living dreams

thank with a knowing wink

that cloud cover,

letting us hunt

in that first light

without a burning glare

eyes wide to drink it in,

that beauty that makes us mad

and forever fleeting,

made with water in air

The Sunlight Iron Flash Muses

the heat of spring

brings the office people outside

brisk walk

to hide our wandering eyes

as the city aligns

to sight the sunning flesh

such fleeting seconds

stitch together the patch-quilt

of our day,

and fuel us

through carnal night

when our real work

is done

First Bite of Spring

The first bite of Spring

is the cool chill

that doesn’t sting,

is spying the last piece

of melting snow

with a smile and a wink.

The first bite of Spring

is to smell the coming bloom,

to see that slight blur

of color that promises

to unfurl.

To drink in the Spring

is to tread that dangerous place,

and yearn to soak it all in

before it burns our face.

Warrior at the Bulk Discount Club

some solitude

amid the bustling shoppers,

rain-spattered, unshaven,

somehow proud

cart-pusher

cubicle sharecropper

weaving past

old and young,

dodging evidence

of decline

to get the provisioning

done

focused

like a beast of prey,

bringing the kill home

to start the day

Rebellion of the Cluttered Mind Warp

submission grows slowly

without time to think

numbed with the circus

our gossip

and drink

rancid workthink

bleeds into leisure time

these precious hours

somehow no longer mine

and thus

the chase for daily bread

cascades the worry

in a dreamer’s head

but lo and behold

with such lust to lash out

and take hold of that lightening

to bring real life about

Kings at the Half King

surly adversaries

after hardly a pint

proud of our heady resolve

and might

making our plans

over soggy-soft coasters

the loud happy babble

of still-youthful boasters

let decades slip past

and revisit these scenes

as hardscrabble years

claim the hardest of dreams

true resolve doesn’t die

but grinds away

and lives on

as the quest will consume us

in our own haggard song

February Spring

disjointed sun,

breezy strolls

where should be

lashing cold,

something broken

on an axis

rusted and old

false joy,

a gift poisoned

with a bad whiff

of heat damage

time slides forward,

a broken ride

swinging heavily

to an abrupt end

we keep our eyes sharp

to find

pockets of shade

to build our fortress

The Gospel of Swords

Blessed are the clear-eyed,

the keepers of swords,

by their bold blood

our lives are forged.

Lift our hammers

and our spears;

leave plowshare angels

their slavery

and tears.

Rejoice the future,

present and past.

As we make our history.

the die is cast.

Weeknight in Hell’s Kitchen

Down the dark avenues

where footsteps fall off of crowded curbs

to scuttle past the slow flesh night life,

the neon punctuates

roiling twighlight.

The pastel dusk

is our emperor,

ordering us to sweet sin

that tastes better

with the ghosts of old crimes.

Let us lapse

into madness

drunk on laughter

with old friends.

Let this all

fall out of favor

so these streets

will be our secret

again.

Winter Thrives

let it pain us to the bones

the wind like splinters

that fires the soul

solid strength

piling higher than snow

savor the chilled air

the frost breath

that finds you there

to chase the skies

to fight, to dare

the hard, the cold

is winter’s great flower

breathe it deep

to gather power

Kisses for the Whale

empty box rowboat

in the living room

sets sail

orders from the captains:

kisses for the whale

sharp-eyed daughter

in thrall with her game

a glimpse of immortality

on the strength of our name

jumping and playing

no riches can compete

blood of our blood

makes a life complete

the news comes down:

there’s trouble in the skies

no worries from the captains

the ship is doing fine

Cosmic Dragons Loose in the Business World

There were cosmic dragons

dancing around me

at my office.

They praised me

for drinking coffee

and daydreaming.

The eyes of the other staff

were on me

when I tried converse

with these dragons.

They apologized

for their aloofness

but I accept this

as a sacred burden.

They motioned

to guide me away

but I remain

at my desk,

writing poetry

and devising

grand plans

that might please them.

Gotham Guide Stones

grandeur and gutter

in two short streets

consuming sights

indifferent

to the time

we try to keep

glittering glass

on sidewalk and sky

wearing a stone mask

but searching

every face that passes by

armies of strangers

spin their dances

like demons possessed

angry undercover poets

blind

to how they are blessed